Now the sweat, the push makes sense.
All our sad what if's were there
in praline soil like marshmallow moons
between two crackers cooking
over campfire flames I couldn't see.
I would have stopped to speak to you,
stood upon that concrete slab
like bathroom scales and balance beams.
Blind men use their hands to feel.
I would have crashed death's circumstance
with daffodils and Daphne sprigs
and sterling nickels of a tear.
Begged the wind to share your voice,
counted sounds we never made.
Would have fought and fought that hill --
just to sit, to contemplate
empty creeks that craved the rain.
I would have sharpened pocket knives,
etched my cloven heart in bark.